Page 172 of Silver in the Bone

He was wearing unfamiliar clothing, and other than a bandage on his forearm, he looked clean and whole. His dark hair had been tied back neatly at his nape. His eyes widened a fraction at the sight of me.

“How is this possible?” I staggered toward him.

But Cabell stepped back, his expression hardening. I stopped in front of him, and the euphoria I’d felt spoiled into unease.

The second figure came alongside him, surveying me with a dispassionate look. He had shaved his beard and—my lips parted in disbelief—his two flesh-and-bone hands were visible as he crossed his arms over his chest.

But somehow, it was Bedivere.

They were both still alive.

I turned to my brother, feeling like I might be sick. “What’s going on?”

He only looked to Bedivere, waiting.

“You ...” My mind couldn’t grasp what was happening. “You were dead. Was it the ritual? Did it bring you back?”

A muscle feathered in Cabell’s jaw, his gaze still turned away.

“Look at me!” I rasped out. “I thought you were dead. Why would you pretend—why would you fake it? Unless ...”

My stomach turned so violently I almost doubled over.

“Did you have something to do with the attack?” The words came out scarcely above a whisper, pleading. I knew he had heard me by the way he flinched. “How are you alive? How?”

Bedivere looked utterly bored by my horror. The wind tugged at his overcoat, hissing as it blew between us.

“Sir Bedivere—” I began.

“I am not Bedivere,” the man interrupted, his voice like the most brutal of winter winds. “He had the honor of the first death at my hand. I took the body of the king, as is only right.”

“You’re ... ,” I choked out. “You’re ... Arthur?”

His smile was all teeth. “Not quite. I was in need of form, and came to wear his skin well.”

The answer echoed in me. Tasted like smoke on the tongue.

I took a step back.

He took a step forward, and I hated myself for falling back again. Ice seemed to radiate from him, turning the air around me to freezing needles. The horned crown, the very same one I’d seen on the statue below the tower, materialized from the mist and shadows to rest on his head—as if it had always been there, secret and unseen.

“Say my name,” he said, his voice as smooth and cold as a blade.

Merlin’s voice echoed in me. I am one of three ... One who dies but might yet live ... one who lives but yearns to die ... and one left behind, waiting ...

King Arthur. Merlin. And ...

One left behind, waiting.

Cabell was the one to answer. “Lord Death.”

He smiled, all teeth. “And how have I come to be here, when the paths between worlds were sealed?”

The answer wove together in my mind. “The druids.”

“No,” he said. “Shall we play a game, child? I’ll tell you another piece of the tale for every question you answer correctly, and deny you the rest should you make another mistake. Do you wish to try again?”

My heart pounded painfully against my ribs.

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